


I will run, I will climb, I will soar

by KaneNogami



Category: The Worst Witch (TV 2017), The Worst Witch - All Media Types
Genre: Ethel isn't kind but mildred only wants her to be a decent person, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Julie Hubble adopts a new daughter basically, The problem of ethel hallow
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-02-24 23:34:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22366354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaneNogami/pseuds/KaneNogami
Summary: There is this rage to Ethel, twirling around her like a hurricane, dragging everybody down with her. Sometimes, Mildred can see the edges of the hurricane, aiming for her face, her hands, anywhere soft enough to hurt. How many times will it take for her to give up, Ethel seems to ask.(That's funny, she was certain to have abandoned any hope of friendship a long time ago.)
Relationships: Ethel Hallow & Mildred Hubble
Comments: 7
Kudos: 32





	1. Chapter 1

It starts with Mildred painting potion recipes down on paper; the gentle brush twirling into spirals to indicate how the ingredients should be mixed together, colorful trails to show quantities next to names she wrote with the utmost care. The thing with Mildred Hubble is that she cannot take notes akin to her classmates, litany of text easily lost on her, information drowning in front of her eyes as she struggles to figure out what ought to be salvaged. Thus, she paints everything—sometimes she opts for doodles although they do not bring the same joy into her heart.   
  
HB, and the other teachers, used to scoff at what they called 'her antics' until they got it. Not all of them—many have simply accepted it's how she is. She appreciates Hardbroom the most, no matter how odd it sounds. Sure, she's strict, and she certainly didn't help her at first. This year, however, with Indigo Moon and everything else—she trusts Joy-who-is-Hecate.

As she is decorating the page with a green circle meant to represent the final color of the potion, doubt starts to grow. It starts with a frown, followed by the brush pressed against her cheek as wheels turn inside her head—the green trail against her skin, wet and vivid, is secondary to the sudden realization that's not her notebook.

Sure, she sometimes lends hers to Enid or Maud, although it's usually to obtain their input and she would never do it during break. A whole month of stopping her friends from studying? That would be a gift, although not a great one. She has goals for next term, including rising into the tough role of best witch of the year.

Brush between her teeth, she carefully lifts the notebook, minding fresh paint, to glance at the cover. That's almost hers, except for the E.H. engraved in gold. That's unfortunate...   
  
That's super mega bad, in fact. Such initials can only belong to one person; nemesis, Mildred would say if she wasn't still thinking about friendship from time to time. Ethel Hallow is the kind of girl, a voice tells her, to drop this into her bag to turn her rival into a criminal.   
  
Except Ethel is supposed to be smarter than that. Not always—some of her plans were mean like that after all—yet enough for Mildred to believe it could have been a mistake. They did work together during their last potion class, which is sort of hilarious as no matter what they cannot get along for more than a couple of hours without everything going awry.

"That's more sad than funny," she admits to herself, paintbrush back on the table.

Her mom is still at her new job—texting her to get her opinion would only bring stress—yet grabbing her broom to visit the Hallow house isn't her greatest idea either. The sooner she is done with this, the quicker she can enjoy her break though.   
  


(Indigo Moon, living with Hardbroom for now, promised to take her on an adventure in a couple of weeks, only the two of them. She has to be done with everything else before that.)   
  


"Tabby, may I inquire of what you would do?"   
  
A soft mewl answers her, bringing little comfort as she leans on the table with a groan. Ethel is going to be murderous because she dared to paint on her notebook, defacing her property.   
  
  


The house—manor almost—gives her a quite uneasy feeling as she hops off her broom. Sure, the place is pristine, plants lovely surrounding the pillars at the entrance, white marble flooring inviting her to step towards the wooden door. And still, Mildred isn't at ease. She remembers Sybil chatting about the way her mother transforms the place once per year to offer it a new life and ensure that their reputation as talented magic users remains.

("Once she accidentally erased Ethel's room from the floorplan—that's kind of sad but at least it wasn't mine!")   
  


Pricks, honestly. Mildred knows exactly what they would say about her charming flat, and she isn't eager to hear anything about that.

Clearing her throat, she glances at the notebook in her arms and then at her outfit which definitely doesn't scream 'hey I can do magic'. Could fabric actually scream with the right spell? Oh she doesn't want to research that right now.   
  
The plan is simple, knocking on the door, throwing the notebook inside and then she can go home before her mom can notice the note she pinned on the fridge about being outside for a short while to visit a friend. 

The problem with her grand project is that the person who opens the door is exactly the one she doesn't want to talk to.   
  
"Mildred Hubble," there is such venom in Ethel's voice that she immediately steps back.

What went wrong, between them? In first year they were rivals, not that weird web of lies and whatever they turned out to be. Her wish of friendship has turned into something sour against her tongue, ache behind her molars, a kind of no return ending she refuses to accept.

"Well met, Ethel. May I enter?"

There is an urge to—invade, perhaps—to refuse to stay outside as she first planned, similar to an unwelcome guest.    
  
"Well met. Why are you here?"   


"To give back something I took without meaning to..."    
  
Arms crossed over her chest, bow tightly holding her hair, Ethel seems to hesitate before stepping back so they may talk inside. As soon as Mildred steps inside, she is overwhelmed by the extravagant decoration, paintings glaring at her while she strolls through the hallway, carpet devoid of any stain under her feet.   


At this moment, she is taken back to her first week at Cackle's, when magic was still brand new, invading her senses. Except the joy is absent this time around, and she feels nothing but relief when they stop in the dining room. She collapses on a chair at the end of the table, manners forgotten under the shouts which are sure to come. Ethel doesn't bother to hide her disdain as she sits by her side, eyebrows raised. 

"I'm waiting, what is this mysterious thing that you stole from me, this time around?"    
  
Is this about Ethel not being lantern monitor? There was a reason for that—a consequence for something she has done. It's unfair to put the blame on Mildred, to throw the weight onto her shoulders so she doesn't have to carry it. Fed up already, she slides the notebook towards Ethel, who appears confused for a moment.

"Oh, that. Did you wish to copy my recipes? If you want someone to tutor you, why not ask HB?"    
  
"I don't need a tutor, I'm not the worst witch anymore, and anyway, I took it by mistake!"   


She doesn't mean to raise her voice, it just happens. That's so frustrating to be around Ethel, to—sometimes she is decent, almost understanding of her troubles, or rather they used to be able to be partners—endure her words, tongue as sharp as a knife. She slides the notebook towards Ethel before she has enough time to reply. 

"Before you ask, I painted in it, you'll have to glue the pages together to avoid looking at my awful work, I guess."

Lips pursued in disapproval, Ethel opens it on the wooden table, going through her notes until she finds the unfathomable.   


"That's... Nonsensical. Spirals? Little hearts? And they let you get into my grade?"   


Why are you like this? The words get stuck inside her throat. Mildred isn't certain of how she is meant to deal with the aggressivity. Or any of this honestly. She expected Ethel to accuse her of disrupting her studies, only to realize that the other girl doesn't appear to have started looking at her notes yet. It's kind of odd, unexpected even.   


"To me it makes sense. See the hearts indicate the amount of strength you have to use while crushing the ingredients. Two means—it's like crushed but not completely, with bits remaining."

"Who else would understand that?" 

"It's my notes, why would anyone else care about them?"    
  
"You're infuriating."   
  
"So are you. Where is Sybil?" 

At least, the youngest sister is a delight to hang with. In fact, Esmeralda is also fantastic, it's only Ethel she has a problem with. The brutal change of topic appears to bother her host for a moment, before she clears her throat. 

"Mother took my sisters on a trip to France—for the day," she adds awkwardly as if she had forgotten that detail. 

"Only for a day, that seems awfully short." 

"They are meeting with relatives of ours, I'd rather not go, it's an hindrance to my summer break."

Was she invited in the first place? The thought is ugly, leaving Mildred feeling meaner than she wanted to be. She offers a nod, glancing at her surroundings. 

"I've never been to another country, that sounds fun though. Your family has a thing for paintings by the way."

"My ancestors are everywhere, yes. Mother loves to gush about their heroic actions in the past." 

Such as lying and stealing other people's achievements! Although she arrived not long ago, Mildred is already overstepping her welcome. She wants to leave this suffocating testimony of terrible witches succeeding one another, to burrow herself in her small bedroom, paint smeared on her fingers and her mother running fingers through her hair. 

"So," she starts, mindful of Ethel's piercing gaze, "I have to go back, can't have my mom worry you know."

Does she? Her eternal rival, chin up and bow perfectly symmetrical to her head, doesn't appear to have a grasp on the concept. There is a lingering impression of deja-vu suddenly, of something going wrong akin to a wheel, spinning over and over. 

"You may be excused from the table."

Silence engulfs them for a moment. 

"Is this a joke?" 

"Everything I say is one, to you. Go."

She scrambles on her feet without bothering to ask for a confirmation. Mildred has dozens of replies tucked in her head, and none is able to reach for her tongue. Thus, she is soon on her way, confused by the impression of having missed something important.    
  


Maud sent a postcard, filled with stickers she gifted her for her birthday, stars and cats and everything cute enough she found in a supermarket, and Mildred pins it to the wall. Akin to a tree, it grows, mementos forming an anchor to her existence as a witch, as someone who matters. She still has the bitter taste of children calling her a weirdo, sighing at games of playing pretend they had long outgrown. Akin to a large sweater, she is still comfortable wearing herself, finding a place to grow in, to flourish. Ah, she learns nonetheless, steadily.

(The witches you love so much, the witch that you are, aren't they unfair? Didn't they treat you badly?

Weren't you almost expelled out of fear, more than once. Rejected, over and over?)

Mildred smiles softly, pushing everything wrong away to remind herself that she is still here, a whole being, bright pink socks anchored against the floor of her bedroom. There is homework awaiting her, history wishing to be traced back on paper, rewritten. She isn't great at that, sentences and long analyses where she cannot pour her feelings out. As gray skies greet her by the window, she thinks about Ethel. There is no warning, thoughts jumping straight into this vision of her face—quite unpleasant expression—of a bunch of what-if again. 

Suddenly, she feels exhausted, pressing one foot on top of another in annoyance. Ethel has always been great at history, at vomiting back facts learned by heart. Not that she lacks imagination, with all the cruel things created by her mind. Ah, that's mean.

Whatever. 

Perhaps it's a leap of faith, another olive branch she shouldn't extend, when she kisses her mom on the cheek before grabbing her broom.

"Where are you going?" 

"To see Ethel, we have history homework and Enid and Maud aren't available so I think—like asking her, just once."

"I thought she was supposed to be the meanest girl of the school?" 

"Oh, don't get me wrong, she probably is. But, you know—" Mildred shrugs, unsure of the unease in the pit of her stomach. 

  
(There must be a reason, a starting point. Her mom said 'supposed to be'. She clings to that, to the way it's not written in stone.)   
  
  


She is gone before the rain can touch her, lowering herself in front of the sinister house she isn't liking any more than the previous time. She knocks, awaiting a lifetime once more. That's odd, how isolated witches seem to be. Like, she grew in the city, neighbors blasting music and telling her good morning on her way to school. Here there is nothing. 

"Mildred Hubble. Well met." 

Will they have the same conversation, words following into nothingness again? Mildred inhales sharply, having no wish for such a thing. Broom clenched in her fingers, she repeats the greeting, stepping inside as soon as she is invited to do so. 

"I've been struggling with some homework, and I cannot be the worst witch anymore, so we could study together. Showing Sybil cool stuff too, I'm sure she—" 

"Sybil isn't there." 

"Again? Another trip?" 

This time, they walk past the dining room, climbing endless stairs with gold engraved in wood. Ethel doesn't stop, walking in front of closed doors one after another. Her bow isn't exactly where it should be, slightly on the side; that's all Mildred can see. 

"I suppose."

"What do you mean?" 

There is this rage to Ethel, twirling around her like a hurricane, dragging everybody down with her. Sometimes, Mildred can see the edges of the hurricane, aiming for her face, her hands, anywhere soft enough to hurt. How many times will it take for her to give up, Ethel seems to ask.    
  


(That's funny, she was certain to have abandoned any hope of friendship a long time ago.)  


"I do not want to study with you."

"You let me in, so—we can at least try. Maybe I can help you too."

"I doubt it." 

Mildred pretends to ignore that her question never got an answer. 

"Let's try, okay? I'm here."

"You're a bother."   
  


Later, as they are sitting in what she assumes to be Ethel's bedroom—empty shelves and walls bare of any memory, odd salmon color bleeding on them, so unlike the soft purple she dreamed of—it appears that no murder has occured. They are certainly working separately though, only exchanging rare sentences when it's compulsory. As Mildred is done with her history essay, trying to find mistakes her brain is going to miss, she glances at Ethel working on HB's homework. 

"Hey, you didn't remove the recipe I wrote down," it's still here, between two pages of Ethel's handwriting, sandwiched awkwardly. She was certain the other girl would rip the pages off without a second thought. 

"Hm? Oh yes, I see no logic behind your reasoning yet it isn't unpleasant to have an—example of your work. After all, we might get paired together by HB again." 

It's true their styles clash horribly with each other in that regard. She admits that focusing on the wall of text Ethel enjoys to keep for herself is a chore. 

"I could give you another sample, if you need. And like. Maybe you could teach me to recognize important parts in your work. You tend to copy definitions—to get them all, and I'm more at ease with keywords?" 

Having to draw invisible lines, to jump from one thing to another akin to a frog in a pond. Well, that makes little sense, as she tends to be an average student—the thought of not being the worst is almost enough to bring tears in her eyes, she worked so hard for this—and she should write everything down. It's not helping though, when she does so. 

"I am excellent at remembering exact sentences. Although applying them is another thing entirely," Ethel admits, legs curled under her body as she sits on her bed while Mildred is on the rug, "Our partnership in class will remain an entire failure, I must say." Oddly, the bite in her town has something mocking rather than brutal to it. 

Mildred can work with that. 

"I guess so—should we get snacks, I'm starving." 

"Bold of you to invite yourself into my house and then beg for food."

"Come on, spare me something. I cannot fly home like this," she lays on the rug, in a dramatic way which causes Ethel to groan. 

"The mere prospect of having you overnight is enough to convince me, let's go downstairs."   
  
  
  


The kitchen is as silent as everything else, although no portrait is here to stare down at them. Mildred dislikes the lack of—cereals in colorful boxes, biscuits awaiting her next to tea or hot chocolate. Ethel manages to wrestle a couple of toasts and marmalade and they spread it on in silence, sitting on stools next to each other. The study session, albeit odd, isn't as terrible as Mildred expected. Yet, as she lifts a toast to lick marmalade falling off a side, she knows her next question might ruin that too.   


(She has forgiven, not forgotten. She was treated badly under the pretense of her being new to magic. Little comments about her not being a witch, detentions and punishments she didn't deserve. Why is it always you who ruin everything Mildred Hubble?   
  


It's not fair.)   


"You're alone, aren't you? They left for break," she didn't want to formulate it this way, to say more than 'woah you're tolerable today'. Mildred doesn't want to pretend, to lie to Ethel. That's enough drama between them already. 

"And what about it?" 

She fears the storm brewing, Ethel trapping her in the house, locked doors and screams. Ah, but then why is she here? Nightstar glares at her from the edge of the counter. 

The Witches' Code offers no comfort, no rule about not overstepping boundaries, and Mildred with marmalade on her chin and a frown between her eyes, doesn't know what to reply.

"For the whole Summer?"

Ethel' shoulders slump a little at the question. She twirls the knife between her fingers, enraged adolescence bleeding through her mind as she does so. That's fine, Mildred promises silently, to be mad at unfairness. After all, she is often pissed at her so-called rival for that exact reason.

"I was supposed to come—in the same way I was certain of being lantern monitor—until Mother took me aside, fingers digging into my arm, calling me an utter embarrassment. In the end, I am fine, do not fret as if–"

"I cared."

"Yes, that," Ethel relents her grip, knife ending alone on the table, "I have little use for pity."

"They shouldn't abandon you though."

When she was around seven, there was a girl—the memory is foggy but she remembers her mom asking questions about her a couple of times, something about her clothes always being the same during playdates, or walking alone without a parent by her side, how disappointed she was when Mildred couldn't get out to play once night has settled in. Back then, Mildred was a little jealous, as she was only allowed to go to the supermarket supervised when the girl could buy flour and sugar for her mom, carrying them proudly in her tiny arms. Then, her classmate moved away without a warning, and now she wonders what her mother and teacher were whispering about while watching them play tag together—why can't she recall her name?

"Oh, it's not as if there was anything else to do with me."

Drumming fingers against her cheek, almost unbothered—no, that's wrong, it's as if Ethel wasn't there at all—she seems to await for Mildred to say otherwise, to get passionate about the love which must be there.

  
  
(The thing is that Mildred has been hurt countless times, it's just that people do not notice, or maybe they simply do not want to.)

"Do you like me, Mildred Hubble?"

"No," she replies without thinking, wiping her chin with the back of her hand, "I used to wish I could like you, to—build something between us. I thought you were cool, at some point. But then you messed everything up."

"Why are you here, then?"

"That's not an excuse, to dislike you. That's not enough to leave you behind. Sorry, I'm kind, even though it sounds lame."

  
(Sorry I'm a terrible witch, sorry that my mom can't be one, sorry that I'm no-good and that—)   
  


Ethel is fighting back tears, she realizes. Fury must be contagious, because a storm is growing under her ribcage too. It expands until she is out of breath, stool shrieking as she drags it closer to Ethel's. That's unfair, to get attached to someone who has hurt her so badly, one term after another.

This whole masquerade, unbelievable joke of everything except a friendship she has to endure, is dragging her down. How to stop, when should she stop back?

"What else have they done, your parents?"

Missed calls, refusing to come to school for their daughter, not even bothering to hide how little they care? That's the part she is aware of. The details though, the countless jars of marmalade as sole dinner, empty hallways and hands bruising Ethel, that's new.

Mildred hates that so strongly that something inside her is shaking. Homework long forgotten, she crosses her arms over the kitchen counter.

"You don't have to tell me, it's okay," it's not, it's everything but okay. Ethel is a bully, she's mean and too rough. She's young, a child still. What's the excuse for her parents? "Come with me."

"Which kind of nonsense are you—" 

Tears are swallowed back inside, Ethel ignoring the toast in front of her, still untouched. 

"Never had a sleepover before?" 

"We both know that's far from what you are suggesting."

"Perhaps, no one can prove it though."

It's the last chance between them, honestly. If this fails, they will return to school as enemies, Ethel making one more mistake. The kind to finally have consequences; there will be no going back from such an ending. 

"I am bringing Nightstar to your sleepover. Or else I will certainly die of boredom."

"If he doesn't mind Tabby, that's good with me."

"He is well-behaved," and all I have, is the part that Ethel avoids saying out loud.    
  
  
  


Menacing skies soak them on their way home, rain sticking to their clothes as they step on the balcony. Mildred catches a worried expression on her mother's face, as she lowers her mug of tea to slide open the glass door. Over the roaring thunder —it was wrong to fly in such weather, dangerous and stupid, so was leaving Ethel behind though—Mildred grins, the gesture forced. 

"Mom, I invited Ethel over for tonight, I couldn't warn you, sorry." 

"Oh Millie, get inside before you both freeze to death," summer rain is too warm for that, although a cold could happen and that would be annoying. Nightstar mewls in protest, jumping out of Ethel's bag, as he couldn't ride with her otherwise. 

Before her mom can say anything—they are sharp, both of them, even if people assume otherwise—Mildred grabs Ethel's hand. 

(She tries to be firm and gentle at once.)    
  


"I'm going to show you my room, come on. We can get changed there."

Does she appreciate Ethel a little more now?

Probably not. She understands, albeit not enough yet. Mildred will focus on fixing things between them another day, for now they need to rest.

"Does Ethel like pasta," Julie inquires suddenly, and the girl seems to struggle with forming an answer, "that's what I intended to make but—"    
  


(There are a lot of wrongdoings to address, regarding Ethel's actions towards her former teacher.)

"That would be a suitable meal, yes," she eventually mutters while Mildred tries to ignore how cold the hand in her is. 

  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still alive! Still writing! I'm as surprised as you are. Chapter one needs to be proofread properly, which will be done and edited tomorrow if I have enough time. I have a plot for this story now (it involves some dark Hallow secrets, child abuse and recovery, and Ethel making amends with Mildred properly).   
> And also, Hecate. Very important. I watched season 3 again, and this fic will need her.

Among oddities—television causing an infuriating background noise, ironing board taking most of the space, the smell of paint disgusting her—what Ethel notices the most is the utter lack of silence. Either it's Julie Hubble, humming to herself, or her daughter, happily walking from one room to another. Neither is doing an appropriate job at turning their pitiful flat—how can people be so restricted, she muses, her who gets lost in a never-changing mansion where she's the sole resident during break—into a comfortable abode at all. If anything, Ethel is uncomfortable, smothered by this unfamiliar atmosphere. Would it be wrong, to grab her broom and simply leave—

That wasn't normal, what Mildred did, basically kidnapping her on an impulse. Ah, she has to put the blame on someone else, isn't it how things have always worked? Trying to redirect negative attention and thoughts away, throwing them at others with as much strength as she can muster.

Bitterness she'll experience again, the kind sticking to her gums like that disgusting pasta sauce does although she brushed her teeth over and over. Another year, Mildred Hubble winning whatever grand prize she obviously deserves, whereas Ethel will—she closes her eyes, sitting on a bed they installed for Indigo Moon, one which stayed in the magically expanded bedroom. Not her place, once again.

Remaining in this 'hideout' until the term starts is preposterous; at best Mother won't forgive her, at worst she has no idea. Her mind flinches from exhaustion, from sandwiches made endlessly, squished between her palms, to knives held so tightly she can still feel them although it's all gone. There is a myriad of truths and lies befitting of a proud Hallow for such opportunity. None comes, leaving her curled in bed, hoping that tomorrow it'll be one of these dreams she cannot remember, Nightstar curled against her chest. 

  
  


"It's like a field trip! Lots to explore, I'm sure it'll be educational."   


"Refrain from treating this as a mean of entertainment. I cannot fathom why you insisted to drag me with you to this—"   


"Supermarket," Mildred supplies with the smile of someone who is making her push a rusty cart among confusing alleys for the fun of it. Well, Julie Hubble did give them a list, akin to the kind they follow for potion making. With a clear lack of instructions, and her daughter believing herself to own the whole place.   


Running her over with the cart would be a possibility, alas Mildred appears to be in charge of the precious list, and therefore has to be spared for the time being. She seems to know exactly where she is going, filling most blanks with pointless chatter as they go through the gruesome task.

Meanwhile, Ethel is, quite valiantly, for her standards, sticking to the assigned task. What she is learning is that common people ought to have thirty-three different cereal boxes. And every alley looks even less appealing than the previous one. She glares at strangers who walk too close, or who bump into Mildred without as much as an apology.   


"How much longer is this tragic display of your life going to last?"   


"Hm, thirty minutes?"   


Groaning against the Witches' Code, which clearly forbids her from murdering the other, Ethel accepts defeat.   


"If you want anything—like sweets or?" Mildred spins around, colorful shirt underneath overalls blinding her for a second. She gestures, arm outstretched, almost hitting an old man in the face.

That's almost comical, how unchanged they are. The excited children on the first day of school, Mildred lighting everything around her with her curiosity, heart spread wide to engulf everything. Oh. Ethel isn't certain of the last point. At times, when Ethel's replies to her mom aren't nice enough, there is a shadow in her gaze, her voice immediately covering Ethel's. She has everything though, how could she—

Ah, fairness isn't a common family trait. Ethel sighs.   


"Marmalade, perhaps."

"Is it all that you eat outside of school?"   


The sentence, a joke for sure, or a way to get her to unleash another disaster, falls flat. Ethel barely has time to open her mouth that Mildred is already mumbling 'forget it', abandoning her to rush into another aisle.

That's odd. Their bickering used to be—not quite friendship, albeit something better than whatever is left to salvage. During first term, wasn't everything different? Her jealousy more childish, less invasive. Not an obsession, a constant rambling chewing on her brain. 

  
  


Marmalade is added into a bag, alongside other products. And, she watches as Mildred pushes the cart on the almost empty-parking, climbing on the creaking metal as it drifts almost too far, straight for the road. Luckily, gravity, and the groceries, prevent another accident. What remains is the grin on Mildred's face, wind blowing against her.   


"What are you doing?"   


"Wanna try?"   


"Absolutely not, I am not an utter disappointment unable to function in society like you are."   


Yet, she claimed the opposite, back at the manor. She glares, anger flaring inside her veins, ice cold, and cruelty on the tip of her tongue, while Mildred walks back with the cart.   


"If you're scared, then—"

"Are you insulting me, Mildred Hubble?"   


"All I'm saying is—"   


The way her lips are curled reminds Ethel of a feline pleased with itself, prank gone well in exchange for attention. Absolutely pathetic. Yet, as her hands wrap around the warm metal, Ethel has to admit that a part of her envy that freedom.

(Envy. Jealousy. Wrath. How many of those do you intend on claiming as yours?)   


Blatantly disregarding safety rules, and the pounding underneath her ribcage, she starts running. That will never compare to flying, to the feeling of being higher than anybody else.   


Yet as her feet jump on the shopping cart, and there is no control on anything happening now, Ethel has a second where things aren't as wrong as usual. Enough to crane her head back, staring at fluffy clouds drifting gently when she is a comet.   


The constant itching underneath her skin these days vanishes until she is back on the ground. 

  
"How was it?" Mildred catches up to her, awaiting to hear her opinion. Where the bubbling excitement from previous years, when she would come to Ethel still expecting something? Now it's all distance and old wounds between them. For a second, she almost has regrets.   


"I suppose the non-magical kind has to find ways to enjoy their lack of magic."

The crestfallen expression is gone, also. Another cherished crime which has turned into apathy, the joy of causing the newfound witch a meager amount of pain now resumed via Mildred barely shrugging as she grabs grocery bags, handing two to Ethel.   


"I really like it, it's fun, that's all."   


"I've seen worse."

"Really? Impressive compliment coming from you."

"Shut up."

(Why, no when, have things turned this way? Sourness invading your mouth each time words try to form themselves, fists clenched against your clothes, anticipating the next loss.) 

  
  


On the third day—she loathes the idea of wearing borrowed clothes, switching between plain dresses, remaining barefoot while awaiting for her socks to be out of the dryer alongside the rest, can't stand how everything smells like Them now, the way she reaches for the right cupboard to get a glass without hesitation—she sits down at the kitchen table, familiar knot inside her guts. 

When will they turn against her, sell this semblance of stability as a revenge for all she has inflicted? Perhaps later, as Julie is knitting on the couch, some sort of monstrosity which appears to be a scarf, Mildred painting with watercolors once more. 

Among artists, what is she? 

When her nemesis, distrusted enemy, pushes colorful square sheets towards her, Ethel wonders if she's meant to rip them apart one after another. Would it ease the way her lungs are trying to collapse, heart unable to slow down? She stares, dumbfounded, as Mildred uses her elbow, realizing she has paint on her fingers, to also offer her a book on origami? Folding paper? 

What for? 

Fury curls underneath her skin—after all that wasn't far from her initial concept. She chokes on her ambition, on the television which won't stop playing a show she is certain they already watched the day before. Slamming the book open with more force than compulsory, she goes through complex designs above her level, rather than starting at the beginning. 

That's how it always is. Average won't be tolerated. On a hand, that's how things are. On the other, she doesn't even have such high grades any longer, mind led astray by that meaningless competition with Mildred. 

"The butterfly is my favorite right now. It is in the purple section."

"Why would I want to make something you enjoy?" 

Why can't she stop snapping at little things which couldn't matter less? Ethel has to repress a scream, the urge to hide into the bedroom and pretend to do homework. Instead, she fumbles through countless pages, until she finds it. Purple is beginner level. Damn Mildred and her inability to explain things normally. 

Whatever. She isn't doing that one. 

The frog on the following page is more enticing, and she grabs one sheet. Following the written instructions isn't that complicated, alongside glances at the pictures to ensure she isn't making a mistake. Albeit unsteady on its legs, the first frog is acceptable. 

The instructions state that it can jump by pressing fingers and then releasing—she watches it as it takes the worst leap in history. Infused with magic, that would be more interesting. She could shape birds out of paper, watching them fly around the room. Nightstar rushing to catch them one after another. 

"Oh, such a cute frog. Good job, Ethel." 

Who does this woman think she is? Julie has stolen her creation, couch abandoned to observe her failed—if not perfect it's worthless—akin to a treasure. Terrible. Her lips pursued in disgust, Ethel almost snatches it back, before the words register inside her brain. 

_ Good job. _

Praise? For—that? Ridiculous. 

"This one is faulty, you can have it," she lets out without thinking, astonished at how bold the sentence is. Offering a gift, to this person? To a teacher she antagonized for months? What if the place is causing her to be contaminated by the lack of magic? No, that wouldn't make sense. 

"Thank you, it's fine though. A bit crooked, that's all." 

The fridge is already covered in whatever 'Millie' made at school and then sent home over the last terms, countless depictions of their life at Cackle's. Mostly buildings, flowers and potions. Next to that, what's—Ethel, deeply uncomfortable, can only allow her frog to be placed between ugly decorations and old photographs on a shelf, wondering how long it'll stay before getting tossed away. 

Esmeralda's projects got a bit of attention, sometimes used to brag around guests. Sybil in herself was a creation, having to sit perfectly still in brand new dresses, while strangers would gush over her perfect angelic expression. 

Ethel only remembers slammed doors and forgotten drawings found in the fireplace. 

(They may be victims, all of them. 

Ethel refuses to entertain this possibility.) 

Cackle's days are soon to come, the routine of the past five days imprinted against her bones. Elbow against her ribs in the morning to reach the bathroom before Mildred, or keeping an eye on the food, treating pots as cauldrons, simply ensuring nothing is overflowing, getting thanked by Julie later—dozens of tiny things which are wrong. She feels misplaced. 

She has no grasp on what the shows mother and daughter seem to adore are supposed to be, confused at animated movies they encourage her to watch with them. Magic doesn't work this way, she complains when princesses make deals with sea witches, or when animals talk to each other on screen. 

When they go outside, Mildred sketching the world, she cannot even lay on grass, afraid of green dripping against her hair and clothes, tainting them forever in this foolish world. She sits on benches, watching people passing by. Ice creams in their hands, skateboards against the sidewalk, playground invaded by screaming banshees. 

She's an outsider. 

One who isn't leaving, in spite of everything ordering her to do otherwise. 

The situation is dire—an obvious path staring back at her, mockingly—manor and parents and reproaches looming over her until she can feel jolts of pain through her body. At first, she ignores them as she has always done, distancing the mind from the body as a mean of remaining alive. Pride swallows fear so deep that she cannot even reach for it. 

One afternoon, as Mildred is tracing trees, branches and leaves so detailed from practice, Ethel has to step away from a moment. This time, the amount of sorrow inside her bones is almost enough to make the young Hallow trip on her own feet. She lifts her sleeve, hoping that it's a mere result of anxiety or being so far away from magic—anguish twisting her face as she notices what's greeting her. 

Akin to thunder, a couple of sparks dance underneath skin, causing her to gasp in pain when two of them collide, vanishing straight as they do so. Others remain, and, terrified, she wonders what she has done this time around. Had she tempered with magic—she would definitely remember! Back against the closest trunk, Ethel has to battle against tears, lowering her sleeve. The term will start soon, this shall be ignored until then. 

Rather than asking an adult, getting judged and punished preemptively, she'll find a way to cure this slight unexplained mishap. 

"Ethel?" 

"It's nothing," she challenges, ensuring her bow is perfectly balanced in her head before lifting her gaze towards Mildred, "missing home, I suppose." 

"Do you?" 

"No—yes, of course I do. Why are you asking?" 

"Someone should."

Hands want to push the smaller girl against the ground, to shout and order her to stop pretending. Drop the act, do not behave as if Ethel wasn't a waste of space, some sort of charity case.

"Mom is going to let us order takeout, she does that sometimes, usually we pick pizza, although there is a vast number of flyers in our drawers..." Mildred rambles for a while, shoulders slumped in what feels like defeat in spite of her words, "we should go back."

Don't run away, please. 

Lacking common sense, Ethel shrugs, following her back into the flat. 

On the eighth day, everything ceases to be. 

Mother stands in the living-room, back too straight, impeccable outfit for the occasion. The sort of elegance reserved for funerals, not that Ethel is able to articulate anything. She suffocates instead, barely noticing Julie Hubble in the room, stepping between them with a tiny smile. 

"It's polite to knock," she offers, which won't do. 

_Nothing_ will. 

The future has the form of cruelty, Mother being more of an entity than a person, untamed monster reigning in terror among her subjects. Ethel barely notices how her arms ache, the way it spreads against her chest, sparks dancing underneath her dress.

"Endangering a witch by stealing her from her home is a crime, especially a child," the monster states. 

That's the wrong kind of funny, Ethel muses as she leans against the wall, until that point—it took her to be separated from her place for only a little more than one week to realize that none of her existence is normal at all. 

There is no sense of safety in the manor, in returning to her room gone and the problem fixed only two days later due to the woman being busy. Father absent, uncaring. Barely looking at Sybil with a hint of paternal interest. 

"We are having a sleepover. The long kind," Mildred interjects. Not much tact, nor she should stand in front of her either, "anyway you weren't home either." 

(She has wronged everyone in this room, by not being what she should have been; brilliant, above others. An inspiration rather than a warning.)

"What a terrible child. Lack of education? I'm not surprised, considering your poor upbringing. You should know better than to speak when adults are trying to solve a problem." 

"My daughter says as she pleases, and I happen to believe she is right,"  Julie is still refusing to step back. 

The frog is still there, undamaged nor fixed. Merely a decoration on a shelf, starting to get covering by weekly dust. Ethel wants to cradle it inside her hands, and to disappear. To pretend this week did not happen, that nothing has changed. To avoid facing that tidal wave ready to sweep her away from the shore, ensuring she drowns until she learns her place. 

"Ethel knows better. She wouldn't have gone with mediocre people on her own volition. Isn't that right?" 

Tears blossom, quickly blinked away. 

That's fine, if she had to remain in her room out of fear.

Acceptable to be left behind while the others go on trip, while Esmeralda is the golden child and Sybil a prop to show to strangers. 

She can deal with bruises and humiliation. 

She can (not)—

Ethel has no reply which would satisfy everyone in the room. In fact, she'd rather not be there at all. What's the point, they have made their mind already, about her—one side believing her to be a problem, the other doing the same except they foolishly think they can fix this. 

"Let's go home," she mumbles.

Giving up is all she's great at. Not getting that stupid lantern monitor thing, grades never matching her older sister's. People getting drawn to Mildred instead of her. 

She steps forward, past the human barricade. 

"Ethel, don't!" 

"Mildred, we knew it would end like this." 

(Why are you so infuriating, just give up already!) 

"It doesn't have to!" 

Unable to stand that conversation, her mother frowns, gaze slithering towards Mildred Hubble. Who, for once, has done nothing to deserve such attention. 

"Some children should learn where they belong."

The following catastrophe—hours later, laying on a hospital bed, Ethel still won't understand—slips out of her grasp so fast. In the blink of an eye, her mother has cast a spell, aimed straight at Mildred, and another towards her mom. The sort of terrible thing she will use her position to avoid paying for, pretending that these dangerous people have tried to hurt her precious and beloved daughter. Convincing Ethel to speak in her favor. 

Ethel screams, as spells flow past her, her whole body suddenly on fire. Confusion is painted on Mother's face, as blue and purple sparks dance underneath her daughter's skin, reaching her face. It does surprise Ethel, who feels deep jolts everywhere on her skin. 

Then, she explodes, from the inside. 

Rather the magic stored in her core, the sparks who keep on tormenting her, they all connect at once. Spells are knocked away from their targets, although the shockwave resulting from Ethel is enough to destroy the shelves next to her—frames exploding, paper frog blown away. Mildred's head collides with a chair as she is projected back, and all Ethel can see is the red stains left behind on wood. The way she slumps on the floor, silenced for her bravery. 

Julie Hubble, (extra) ordinary mom, so quick to shield her unconscious daughter, to crawl by her side. 

Mother is standing there, hair a mess, confusion turned to something else, disgust—yes, rejection and words that Ethel doesn't hear, everything ringing against her ears and not making any sense. 

That's when she feels the wetness against her skin, at first, it simply seems her dress got drenched in water. Then, Ethel understands. It's blood. Dozens of cuts in the fabric, from where the magic escaped, leaving gashes on her skin. 

Oh, that's not even painful, she tells herself, spotting a familiar figure on the balcony, stern teacher who—

When she faints, there isn't anybody to catch her. 

That too, must be deserved.    
  
  
  



End file.
